33. Going Backwards

GOING BACKWARDS

T hey didn't drive for long, only a few hours, in fact.

Because, of course, they would be staying at The Goat's Tail Inn. It was as though somebody was pouring salt into an open wound.

There was nowhere that she could look without being reminded of him, and each little realization only widened the hole in her heart. She could almost see him striding through the entryway as though he owned the place because, well, he did in fact own the place, or else leaning against the counter, discussing their accommodations with the innkeeper and Mr. Fitzgerald. He would have been the one to arrange for Sally to help her that night. He would have been the one to replace that wretched gown she'd been wearing the day he rode off with her.

The new gowns had been pretty and… comfortable. He hadn't replaced her stays. With what she knew of him now, and after he'd torn them off her that day with such desperation, she imagined he considered the garment pointless at best.

He always let her eat as much as she needed and asked about her preferences. Although he refused to let her endanger herself, he seemed to genuinely want her to experience as much freedom as her circumstances would allow.

The wave of memories of every thoughtful thing he'd done left her feeling more than a little light-headed. It had never been a kidnapping. It had been a rescue.

He'd provided her with an escape.

But it had only been temporary.

He wasn't here somewhere, making sure she was taken care of. She'd left him behind.

Marching up the familiar narrow staircase, she had to clutch a hand over her heart.

The universe couldn't even assign her a different room.

Everything was almost exactly where it had been before, like that day was playing over again just for her. It was the same place, but knowing she would be driving away from him tomorrow instead of with him toward his manor, it felt so very dark.

A hollow echo.

Amelia couldn't bring herself to care when Miss Henrietta tutted disapprovingly as she examined the chamber.

"Just look at this place. Can't even be bothered to turn down the bed properly and Lord knows how old these sheets are. And here!" She wandered over to the washbasin, looking positively aggrieved. "There's no soap. We'll have to make do with our own—probably for the best, if I'm being honest."

"It's fine," Amelia said and immediately felt tired from the effort.

"The trunks haven't been brought up yet, either. Disgraceful! If this was a proper inn, they'd have been waiting already." Amelia crossed the room to stare out the window. The sky in the distance reminded her of the sea.

In her mind, she was remembering the morning he'd run after her wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. Not because he'd thought she might escape, but because he'd been worried.

So worried that he'd barely taken the time to throw any clothing on.

And walking back, he'd held her hand.

Sounding almost distant, Amelia only vaguely heard Miss Henrietta's continued ranting. "I'm going to have to chase them down. You stay here. I'll return shortly." Her lady's maid left the room with a determined scowl.

Amelia may have nodded. She may have answered.

She didn't care, really.

She'd cared before. She'd wanted to make everyone happy. She'd wanted to do everything she was supposed to do.

But in living for others, for her mother and father, trying to please everyone around her, she'd been living an illusion. She'd almost convinced herself she liked it that way.

If Mr. Beckworth hadn't stopped her father's carriage that day, would she have ever broken free? Or would she have floated along in a cloud of ignorance, allowing her parents to make the most important decisions of her life?

Two gentle raps on the door stirred Amelia enough to turn around.

"Yes?" she called.

When it opened, Clementine's face appeared, and Amelia was able to summon a weak smile.

"I just wanted to look in on you," Clem said and, after searching Amelia's eyes, tilted her head. "You are going to be all right, you know. Even if your father… Well. There's still hope." But she couldn't hide her concern.

For Clementine, Amelia would make an effort. She would… care. Oddly enough, she felt numb to her father's disappearance. She ought to be devastated, but—he'd betrayed her. He'd betrayed all of them.

And yet, Mr. Beckworth's betrayal hurt more.

"I know," she said. And then she added, "It's just… It's a lot to take in."

Clem nodded. "Perhaps we can ride together tomorrow," she said. "You can tell me all about your time with Mr. Beckworth. He's rather handsome, in a rugged kind of way, isn't he?"

It was a curious thing for her cousin to say.

"I didn't think married women noticed those sorts of things." Amelia narrowed her eyes just a little, half teasing. Did Clementine know? But she couldn't possibly.

Clem had stepped inside but still held the door open. "He's nothing like my Benjamin, but… you were alone with him for several days. I just wondered if perhaps…"

"No." Amelia immediately disabused her of the notion. She couldn't talk about this now—not when Miss Henrietta was returning any moment.

Not after that goodbye.

"Right." Clem dropped her gaze to the floor, but then looked up again. "Dinner will be delivered to our chambers. And… If you need me—for anything—I'm right next door." She pointed over her shoulder.

Amelia nodded. "Thank you. And… I would like to ride with you, if your husband doesn't mind." And she meant it. In that moment, Clementine might be her only lifeline.

"He won't." Those two words conveyed a great deal about Clementine's relationship with Lord Winterhope. And although Amelia was happy for her, it managed to double her own pain.

"Good," Amelia said.

Clem hesitated a few more seconds. "Well, good night, then."

"Good night." The door closed again, and without Clementine to warm the room, that coldness returned. As much as Amelia tried to find some good in all of this, she couldn't.

Because it all felt wrong. She was moving backwards, being sucked into a dark and powerful void.

She inhaled as much air as she could, only vaguely aware of the door opening again.

"Right this way." Miss Henrietta was back, leading a handful of inn workers into the chamber. "Put it over there, adjacent to the privacy screen." Before the door had even closed behind them, the lady's maid was pulling out Amelia's nightrail and dressing gown, along with a few toiletries.

She was so very efficient. Amelia vaguely acknowledged that if she truly had been kidnapped, Miss Henrietta would have made for an excellent prison guard.

"Dinner will arrive shortly. Lord Winterhope says that the less you and Lady Foxbourne are seen in public, the safer you will be." She carefully laid out the two garments and brushed her hands together. "So I suppose it's all right for you to change out of that gown. If I run a wet cloth over it and hang it up overnight, I'll be able to pack it properly in the morning."

Amelia rose and, having done this a thousand times before, crossed the room and turned so Miss Henrietta could begin to unfasten the gown.

The prospect of being freed from the corset was the only solace Amelia could find in that moment. She'd had it on for less than half a day and her lungs felt starved, her back ached, and her waist pinched.

As the laces loosened, she nearly collapsed in relief. But that feeling was fleeting.

She hated wearing stays! The thought rose up in her like a flame doused with spirits. Her heart pounded in her ears and it felt like the room was going to close in on her.

Why were they doing this to her? Why did they do it to anyone?

Tempted to unleash a few of the choice words she'd uttered the first night she'd been abducted, the timely arrival of their dinner kept her from doing so.

As a heartbroken person, she'd have imagined she would have lost her appetite, but it seemed just the opposite was true. She hadn't eaten anything all day!

Two filled trays had been delivered, one with two pots of hot water and teacups, and the other with steaming potatoes and a savory meat stew that actually made Amelia's mouth water.

The interruption provided enough time for Amelia's temper to cool. Of course, the pleasant smell and the prospect of a good dinner may have helped as well. She would be civil—or try, anyway.

None of this was Miss Henrietta's fault, really. Like every other woman in this world, the maid was subject to a certain set of rules—in this particular case, her employer's.

Amelia's mother.

As if to test her resolve, however, the moment Amelia went to take a forkful, Miss Henrietta slapped her hand away.

"This won't do. This won't do at all." The maid immediately began re-covering the plates, clucking her tongue in disapproval.

"But… It seems perfectly lovely." Amelia stared at the covered dishes longingly.

"Not for you, it isn't." Disregarding Amelia's protest, the older woman was already carrying the tray toward the door. "Open it for me, will you? I'll be back with a few greens."

Amelia didn't move.

"The door, please, my lady?"

"I—But—" Amelia floundered but did as she was asked. And then, standing in the doorway in her buttoned-up nightrail and dressing gown, she watched Miss Henrietta scurry away.

For all that had happened, nothing had changed. Amelia would wear the same stifling clothing. She'd have the same boring conversations. Every minute of her days would be planned out by her mother—until she was married, that was. And after that, she'd have to defer to her husband.

To Lord Northwoods.

Her appetite, which had been voracious a few minutes before, did in fact disappear at the thought.